


Everything

by geekmama



Series: Aftermath [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 15:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12484944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: In theAftermathof The Final Problem, Sherlock begins to tell Molly everything...





	Everything

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually only half of everything, as there is a lot to tell. I must acknowledge a deep debt to arianedevere at Live Journal/Dreamwidth for her invaluable transcriptions of the series.
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For a while, he lay silent in her arms. He was still tired, she knew, and heartsick on top of it, and so she just held him quietly, only occasionally moving her little finger slightly against his dark curls. It was enough, just to lie with him there, in the deep shadows-- they had left the drapes drawn against the midday sun. She wished courage and forgiveness could be conveyed through osmosis, for she had enough for the two of them, she thought, even without knowing the details that comprised his anguish. 

And maybe those qualities could, in a sense, be passed through the skin, from one being to another, for at last he moved, settling himself on the pillow facing her, just as they had been a few hours before, when dawn was breaking over London. 

She took his hand in hers, and gave him the hint of a smile. 

“You have to understand,” he finally said, his voice low but steady, “that there are many things I am only beginning to remember. Much of my childhood was largely a blank to me for many years, and what I did recall seemed remote, like the memory of a dream. But now, what with the events that took place yesterday, and some truths almost literally _pried_ from Mycroft, I am beginning to remember. Just flashes -- but being at Musgrave last night brought much into the realm of reality. 

“We lived at Musgrave until I was eight years old. Mycroft is seven years my senior, but Eurus was only a year older than I. She… exhibited evidence of psychoses from an early age, apparently, along with the intelligence that Mycroft terms _incandescent_. And she was very attached to me -- and I to her, I believe. Yet, as I grew older, I formed outside friendships, as children do. Well, most children. Eurus was… _unsuited_ to the day school where I attended. And Musgrave is quite isolated. I’m sure our parents attempted to have other children visit, but Eurus would not have been able to relate to them -- perhaps would have harmed them, in fact. I, however, formed a close friendship with another boy who lived fairly close by and went to the same school. His name was Victor Trevor, but in our play -- our adventures as pirates, during which we roved the length and breadth of the estate -- my name was Yellowbeard, and his was… Redbeard.” 

She stiffened, and Sherlock raised his eyes to hers. “I never had a dog, Molly. Victor was Redbeard, and one day, when I was too busy playing with Victor to have any time to spare for her, Eurus killed Victor by trapping him in a long-abandoned well. He was never found, and though it was suspected that my sister had caused his disappearance somehow, it was never proven, until last night, when John was trapped in the same well and found some of Victor’s bones.” 

Molly stared at Sherlock’s grief-stricken face and could not help choking, “Oh, Sherlock, how… how _horrible!_ For him, and you, and… and _everyone!_ ” 

“Yes.” He paused as though gathering himself together once more. “I don’t remember much detail of the aftermath, just a deep sense of grief. And isolation. I… Mycroft says I was… an emotional child.  I did not return to the day school. But I was estranged from Eurus as well. It was suspected she had been behind Victor’s disappearance. There was a song she would sing, something she had made up, and the answer was in it, but neither Mycroft nor I could work out the puzzle, and Mummy and Dad thought it nonsense. They could not allow themselves to believe their beautiful little daughter a murderer, even with all the evidence that she was… _other_. But a month later, she set a fire in the house. It started in my room, but spread through much of the upper story, and that, and the subsequent water damage, rendered the house uninhabitable. My uncle stepped in at that time. He occupied a position in government similar to the one that Mycroft now occupies. He took Eurus away to what he assumed was a secure institution, and assisted my parents’ move to their new home -- the one you’ve apparently visited.” 

“And Musgrave is still abandoned?” Molly asked. 

“A great many repairs would have been needed to make it livable again, and my parents never had the heart for that, not after everything that had happened. Their current home is, perhaps, not as grand, but it is comfortable, as you must have seen.” 

“Oh, yes. I liked it very much. And it seems to suit them.” 

“Yes. I doubt if my parents ever considered selling the estate -- it’s been in the family for generations and, from what Mycroft says, it still brings in enough income from several leaseholders to cover the taxes. But they settled into their new home, and I began to attend a new school -- though there were difficulties. And when I began referring to Redbeard as… as a _dog_ … a deceased family pet… they… they all thought it best to encourage that particular delusion. I had also convinced myself that I had never had a sister. And then Mycroft began teaching me that emotion -- _sentiment_ \-- was something that would only impede my ability to thrive and succeed. Very likely he thought he was telling me the truth, though whether he took his own precept to heart is another matter. He’s not as hard and cold as he would like one to believe.” 

Molly could not help the wry laughter in her voice as she said, emphatically, “No!” 

Sherlock’s eyes met hers and he smiled a little. “How,” he said in quite another voice, “have I been fortunate enough to retain your friendship -- and more than friendship -- when you can see so clearly? It makes me inclined to question your judgement, Dr. Hooper.” 

She sniffed. “My judgement, Mr. Holmes, is as sound as it ever was -- or sounder, since I am no longer blinded by your devastating good looks, or your flair for the dramatic.” 

“Not at all?” he asked, feigning dismay. 

She fought down a smirk. “Just a little, perhaps. Now go on: Mycroft is _not_ hard and cold.” 

He sighed, but resigned himself and said, “Well, he is, of course, though much of it is an act.” He grinned when she rolled her eyes and added, “I know, I know: pot vs. kettle. But even you have to admit it’s extremely useful at times. Still, repression of emotion often backfires. I don’t excuse myself from culpability, but I believe much of my appetite for drugs at university stemmed from the painful and often discouraging effort to eliminate sentiment from my life -- not to mention the way in which said efforts isolated me from my peers long before that, which only added to the problem. 

“But, to go on: Eurus had died in a fire, as I said. _I_ was told nothing of it, but that was the lie told to my parents, to account for the lack of a body, I presume. For she had indeed set a fire at the institution where she was being held, and there were several persons killed and injured, but my sister was not among them. So my uncle had Eurus moved, to a very secret maximum security facility off the coast: Sherrinford. It… it’s not a good place. Dreadful, in fact. But it was thought to be secure enough to hold her for the duration of her life, and moreover, as a government facility, my uncle -- and in more recent years, Mycroft -- would have easy access to Eurus, to ensure her safety and welfare, of course, but also -- and probably more importantly, knowing my uncle -- to allow them to exploit that incandescent intelligence. That’s where it was supposed to end. But obviously it did not.. We don’t know precisely how long Sherrinford has been compromised, but… well, my uncle died under suspicious circumstances over ten years ago, and I fear that many of my _games_ with Moriarty -- or _Jim_ , as you like to call him--” 

“I _can’t_ call him Moriarty,” she objected, hurt at his snide tone. “It makes me sick enough to think of him as _Jim!_ ” 

“Yes, well, you were certainly ready to bite my head off for warning you about him that first time you introduced us.” 

She groaned at this dredging up of ancient history, and said tartly, “That’s because _you_ were a bloody _git_ \-- and probably jealous, to boot!” 

“I was not!” 

She huffed, “Whatever. Go on: what about your _games_?” 

His amused satisfaction at ruffling her feathers died away as he got back on track. “Those games may have originated in the mind of my sister. Some of them, at least. Somewhere along the way she started demanding presents from Mycroft, in exchange for her services, such as they were, and one of those presents was five minutes, unsupervised, with Moriarty. Mycroft, intelligent as he is, had no notion what an impact that five minutes would have on all of us. And after Moriarty’s death and my eventual return from the dead, Eurus became far bolder. She has a talent for disguises and mimicry, as all three of us do, but she also has an uncanny ability to persuade. Moriarty was only one of her dupes. The whole security and administration of Sherrinford was eventually compromised, and she was able to leave and return without hindrance. It was she who created the Moriarty broadcast that saved me from exile and certain death--” 

“ _What?_ ” Molly yelped, half rising on her elbow. 

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “I’d forgot I hadn’t told you about that.” 

“You mean… but you didn’t even say _goodbye!_ ” 

He stared at her, tense and suddenly barely in command of himself. But then he pulled himself together and said, eyes on her chin, “Molly, do you remember Charles Augustus Magnussen?” 

She said, quietly, “Yes, of course. You… you _did_ kill him, then.” 

He looked up quickly, his face very pale. “You _knew?_ ” 

She said carefully, “I thought… when you didn’t come back to town right away. After Christmas. But then, after the broadcast you reappeared and… and seemed back to your usual self. Or more so. But you did kill him, then. And Mycroft couldn’t… couldn’t _help?_ ” 

“That _was_ his way of helping. They couldn’t very well put me in prison -- I’d have been dead in a week, what with the many I’ve helped put behind bars. So he got me six months in Eastern Europe. Or at least that was his estimate. Originally he’d advised me against taking that assignment, but in light of… of Magnussen…” 

Molly bent her forehead to his and said softly, “Oh my God. It seems I have one more thing to thank Eurus for.” 

“Then you… Molly, I _murdered_ a man. In cold blood.” 

She backed away again and looked at him solemnly. “In cold blood? You planned it in advance?” 

“W-well, no! I had another plan -- which in retrospect was fairly asinine. It hinged on betraying Mycroft, and by extension the British government, in order to obtain some papers Magnussen was using to blackmail… a client.” 

“It was Mary, wasn’t it?” Molly asked in a small voice. 

Sherlock stared. “Did _she_ tell you?” 

“Well, not that there were any papers involved.” 

“There weren’t. He had a Mind Palace. The same memory technique I use.” 

“Oh. How.. how awful for you!” 

“I… well, yes. But… _Mary told you?_ ” 

“Yes. Not long after Rosie was born. She felt I should know something of her past, since I was to be Rosie’s godmother. She said you knew, and that it might prove important. I think she suspected that she might… might not live to see Rosie grow up.” A tear slipped from Molly’s eye, but she brushed it away, impatiently and looked straight at Sherlock. “So your plan fell apart and you couldn’t think of anything else to do?” 

“Yes!” 

“Yes,” Molly said, sadly. “She said that’s what happened to her, too. When she shot you. I… I almost couldn’t forgive her that. But you so obviously had, almost immediately. The way you helped her, and cared for her when John had virtually abandoned her -- as soon as you were able, at least. And you told me yourself that you were hoping Christmas would finally bring them together once more. So, in the end, I did forgive her.” 

Sherlock pulled her down then, into his embrace, and they clung together for long moments. Molly shed a few more tears, and she knew Sherlock was trying very hard to hold himself together. Finally, he said, unsteadily “So, you don’t think I’m a horrible old murderer?” 

She smiled, sadly. “No. I _know_ you. But… does it haunt you?” 

“Yes. Sometimes I ask myself what I could have done differently.” 

“And do you ever give yourself a reasonable reply?” 

“No.” 

She moved a bit, and kissed him, and he responded hesitantly at first, and then not hesitantly at all. Turned them so that he was half on top of her, and she melted beneath him, opening her lips, tasting him, breathing the same air.   

But then she began to sense -- or _felt_ , actually -- a new urgency in him, and though she could not help smiling beneath his kiss, she presently moved her mouth toward his ear and murmured, “Are you certain you have no direct experience of this?” 

It was like a dash of cold water -- a very small dash, but enough that he stopped, and gave a kind of gasping laugh. “Pretty certain, though when I was at university there were more than a few nights I don’t remember very clearly.” 

She found that her cheeks were burning, but the time for dissimulation was past. She said, “Well… of course I’m quite willing -- and indeed, anxious -- to assist you in expanding your horizons in this area. But can you finish telling me what you need to, first?”

 

 

_** To be continued... ** _


End file.
